


Dog Days

by thecarlysutra



Category: Thunderheart (1992)
Genre: Case Fic, Connecting with one's heritage, Crow Horse really enjoys fucking up Ray's suits, Daddy Issues, Forensics, In-Laws, M/M, Ray versus government bureaucracy, Rough Sex, Shootouts, Undercover, heroics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-12
Updated: 2011-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-14 16:52:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/pseuds/thecarlysutra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY: On domestication.  Takes place eight to ten months after the events of the movie, and assuming Ray has been living on the rez for six to eight months.<br/>AUTHOR’S NOTES: “Why are you doing this, Carly?”  “Holly is my friend.”<br/>THANKS: There are not words to express my gratitude for Kita, and her continuing to beta read these stories for me.  Thank you so much, bb.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fences

**Author's Note:**

  * For [myhappyface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/myhappyface/gifts).



  
Jimmy ran through the tall prairie grass, the long stalks whistling as he tore past. The grass-shaded ground was cool beneath his paws, and he slid through the foliage with the aerodynamic grace of an airplane taking wing, as though he had been engineered specifically for this purpose.

Ray and Crow Horse followed a few yards behind; less naturally suited to the task, they trampled over and swatted away the grass as they made their way through the fields.

“The hell you talking about, ‘zoning boards?’” Crow Horse demanded. “This is my land. Only one person’s approval you need to build anything on it: mine.”

“I thought it was tribal land,” Ray said.

“Yeah,” Crow Horse said, “and they’ll get it back when I die. And if they decide then that they don’t like the fence, they can tear it down. What’ll I care? I’ll be dead.”

Crow Horse stopped and turned to look back in the direction of his house.

“We’re about thirty yards out. That enough room for Tripod?”

“Why don’t you just fence the border of your property?”

Crow Horse frowned. “Building fences is not the Indian way, Ray. Don’t know how well you know your history, but on the whole we’re not much for breaking up land and setting up boundaries. I’m giving you a lot just fencing off a bit of it.”

Ray looked ashamed, and Crow Horse knew that he just hadn’t known any better, so he added, “Plus, you got any idea how much it’d cost to fence all this? I’m not made of money, you know.”

Ray smiled, and they continued after Jimmy, now a small figure against the horizon.

“We don’t have to put up a fence,” Ray said. “Jimmy can take care of himself, I just—”

“You worry like a woman about him getting snatched or hurt or running off. I know that, Ray.”

“I am not a woman. And he _has_ been hurt; what’ll he do if he loses another leg? It’s just for when we’re both at work; it’s not fair to leave him cooped up in the house all day—”

Crow Horse stopped, frowned. He put up a hand to block the worst of the sun, and squinted off into the distance.

“Call him back,” he said.

“What? I—”

Crow Horse looked at him, dead serious. “Call him back.”

Ray whistled and called Jimmy’s name. The dog turned, ears pricked, and then ran full speed back to them. Ray knelt to receive him, petting and praising him.

Ray looked up at Crow Horse. “What’s the matter?”

Crow Horse didn’t answer. He started walking again. After a few steps, he bent to pick up a fallen branch, and then continued right on. Ray was used to paddling along the wake of Crow Horse’s mysteries, so he followed along, keeping Jimmy close.

Crow Horse was easy to catch up with; he stopped walking after a few yards and stood, hands on his hips.

“Careful,” he said. And then, nodding to Jimmy, “Keep hold of him.”

Ray took Jimmy’s collar in hand, and stopped beside Crow Horse. At their feet was a set of shining metal jaws, attached by a short chain to a peg in the ground. Jimmy was straining in his hand, curious and unused to being tethered. Crow Horse took his branch and thrust it vertically between the metal jaws, hitting it square on the platform between the twin rows of steel teeth. The jaws slammed shut, moving so fast there was a whining sound as the air was torn. The branch snapped, a loud crack.

Ray jumped.

“You can let him go, but keep an eye on him,” Crow Horse said. “That’s a fox trap, chief.”

Ray didn’t let go of Jimmy’s collar. “You put out traps?”

Crow Horse shook his head, his mouth drawn tight. “No. No, I did not. Someone’s poaching on my land.” He kicked irritably at a clump of dirt. “Shit, Ray. Jimmy coulda stepped on that, or you, or me. Those things close, they break the leg. Add into that how cruel they are even if it was a fox got caught. Fox in a trap’ll do anything to be free. It’ll chew off its own foot, just to get loose.”

Crow Horse shook his head. “You take Jimmy on back to the house. I gotta walk the rest of the property to see if there’re anymore.”

“I’ll come with you,” Ray said.

Crow Horse looked after him a moment, then nodded. “All right. But I want you to put him in the house, anyway. And I don’t want you letting him out on his own until we got this sorted out.” He frowned. “Guess we better get movin’ on that fence of yours.”

***

Ray came in snarling two hours after his shift usually started. It was a slow morning, and Crow Horse and George were at dispatch going over reports and donuts.

“Hey,” Crow Horse said. “How was your meeting with the Bureau of Indian Aggravation?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Ray said. He looked at Terry. “Tell me there’s a call for something I can shoot at.”

Terry looked down at the log. “Oh, uh, sorry, Ray, but—”

“He’s joking, Terry,” George said. “And if he hadn’t been, what should you have done?”

“Oh,” Terry said, face scrunching, “um, I should have . . .”

“Not given it to him,” George said. “ _Not._ ”

“Also, you shoulda told me,” Crow Horse said, “so I could make sure his gun’s got no ammo in it.”

“Like you do with mine?” Terry asked.

George patted Terry on the shoulder. “We’ll go over this later, eyah, kid?”

Crow Horse stopped lounging at the dispatch desk to approach Ray.

“I need to disarm you, _kola_?”

Ray’s shoulders slumped. “No. I’m fine.”

Crow Horse raised his brow.

“I really am,” Ray said. “I wouldn’t lie about that.”

“Okay,” Crow Horse said. “We got a light load this morning; want you to catch up on anything outstanding you got, then, if you’re still riled, why don’t you take Terry up to the shooting range, work on getting his marksman ranking?”

“I’m really fine,” Ray said.

“Then you’ll have no problem following my orders.”

They locked eyes for a moment; the gaze broke when Ray laughed.

“Thanks,” Ray said, and headed off to his desk.

“You really want me to go shooting?” Terry asked.

“Sure,” Crow Horse said.

“You want me to keep an eye on Ray when we’re there?”

Crow Horse looked at Terry for a long moment, a smile creeping over his face.

“Yeah,” he said. “You knew I wanted you to do that, huh?”

“What’s the matter with him?” George asked.

“He’s having it out with IHS,” Crow Horse said. “They’re giving him the runaround.”

George winced. “Tribal enrollment?”

“Yeah. He wasn’t going to bother, but IHS won’t cover him unless he’s enrolled. Tribal council’s givin’ him hell, though.”

“How come?” Terry asked. “You said Ray was Indian.”

“He is, Terry,” George said. “But the tribal council has blood quorums, and you gotta prove lineage, all sortsa hoops to jump for new people comin’ in.”

“It’s got him a little stressed,” Crow Horse said. “But it’ll work out.”

***

Ray had bought his first car at fifteen. It had been a piece of shit, but he had paid cash for it, money he’d earned at his first job. He’d driven it into the ground, but it had run until he’d been working a real job for a few years, and he had been proud to be able to afford a grownup mode of transportation when it had finally died.

Ray had sold the convertible before moving out to the rez with Walter. He had been surprised by how easy it was to give up.

In the meantime, he had become oddly attached to the truck, which was, even from an objective standpoint, much crappier than his teenage T-Bird. There was no explanation, really, for why he liked it so much. The brakes were touchy, the air conditioner didn’t work, and it drank oil like a sieve.

Still. Like Jimmy, who was wild and one-legged and refused to wear a leash, who had just jumped into his life one day and refused to leave, it was like Ray didn’t have a choice. The truck had chosen him, and he had grown to love it, despite himself.

They took the truck to the lumberyard, and then to the hardware store.

Ray frowned over a posthole digger. “Do we need one of these?”

“Next you’re gonna want some robot to do the building for us,” Crow Horse said. “Keep it simple.”

He started walking away, then changed his mind and doubled back, snatching a posthole digger from the rack. “Aw, hell. What can it hurt?”

“I thought you said we didn’t need one.”

“You ever built a fence before?”

“No.”

“So, what, you’re an authority? Ray, you gotta—”

“You are so full of shit,” Ray said. “You told me splitting up land and marking boundaries wasn’t the Indian way, and now I’m supposed to believe that you’re some kind of expert?” Crow Horse didn’t say anything, so Ray pressed. “Have _you_ ever built a fence before?”

“Well, no, but—”

“But what, you majored in Fence Theory? Give me a break.”

They rode home with the bed full of lumber and the cab full of supplies they may or may not have needed. Ray drove, and Walter pawed through the bag from the hardware store, expressing renewed concerns over several of Ray’s purchases. Ray eased the truck to a standstill coming up on a stop sign; the engine coughed, seized, and then died. Fifteen minutes and grease streaks all up Ray’s forearms later, the truck was chugging back down the dusty trail.

It was a pain in the ass sometimes, but Ray still loved it. He couldn’t help himself.

***

They spent the better part of the day building the fence. Probably they should have started earlier, or later, anything to avoid the worst of the sun, but there was something deeply rewarding about sweating beneath the sun and the strain of an honest day’s work.

It took six hours, but it was a job well done, and Ray felt safe letting Jimmy out. It was a ridiculously sweet slice of Americana: a little house with a yard and a dog. Afterwards, Ray and Crow Horse sat on the back porch, their thirsty, sunburned flesh drinking up the cool night air, watching Jimmy frolic in the prairie grass. Crow Horse sipped on a couple beers, laughing more with each one. Ray felt himself mellow just on the company, and as the last of the sun’s rays faded away, revealing the true black possible only of a desert night sky, he pulled Crow Horse to his feet and to their bed.

The night music of their laughter and the whisper of cloth sliding off flesh. It was a familiar soundtrack, but one they never tired of; they put the record on most nights.

Their mouths salt-coated, swallowing down the taste of the earth and each other. Their chests ached with laughter, and for the first time that night Ray had the fleeting, ridiculous thought that his body could take no more; he would be ruined by sensation.

***

Ray was halfway through his morning ride-through when the radio crackled. Ray picked up the receiver.

“Levoi.”

The familiar scratchy echo of Radio Terry sputtered through. “Hey, Ray. I got a 211 for you at Sammy Moon Dog’s.”

“Residence or business?”

“Oh, yeah, right. Um, lemme check.” Ray smiled, listening to Terry fumble through his papers, not thinking to stop broadcasting. “Okay. It’s the gas station, Ray.”

“10-4, Terry, I’m 76. Thanks.”

Ray arrived at Sammy Moon Dog’s in less than five minutes. He found Sammy inside the convenience store, sweeping up broken glass. Ray sighed.

“Mr. Moon Dog, leave that, please. It’s evidence.”

Sammy shrugged. “Evidence’a what? Evidence’a me losin’ business cuz my customers cut up their feet?” He took a moment from his chore, studied Ray. “I know you. You’re Walter Crow Horse’s boyfriend, enit? The Indian FBI?”

Ray’s mouth twisted, and he pulled out his badge. “Ray Levoi. I’m the FBI liaison to the tribal PD. You called the police, didn’t you?”

Sammy nodded, grinning. “I did. ‘Ray Levoi, FBI liaison.’ You ain’t Walter’s boyfriend?”

Ray tried to pretend he could not feel himself blush. “That too.”

Sammy chuckled. “Eyah, ‘that too.’ He’s a good boy, Walter. I knew his folks growing up, known him since he was on cradleboards.”

“I, uh—yes, sir,” Ray said, tripping over his tongue. “Um, you—you had a robbery?”

Sammy nodded. He bent to sweep the glass into a dustpan.

“Yeah,” he said. “Some young buck come in here, waved a gun in my face, knocked some shit over. Not bad enough to take the money, he gotta make a mess.”

The door swung open. Ray spun around, badge at the ready. The old woman in the doorway froze.

“I’m sorry, Gramma,” Ray said. “Police business. Store’s closed.”

Sammy rolled his eyes. “Settle down, son. I got a business to run, here. Come on in, Gramma. Just ignore Ray here. You know how these young kids get, all eager.”

Gramma started to browse the aisles, and Sammy went behind the counter to empty the contents of the dustpan into the garbage can. Ray sighed and followed him.

“Mr. Moon Dog, please. It’s my job to collect evidence so I can catch the person that robbed your store.”

Sammy glanced at the trashcan. “You wanna take this home with you?” He chuckled. “Okay, Ray, you do your work. But I ain’t closin’ my store. I took a hard hit this morning; I gotta make up the money.”

Ray accepted the concession. He took the pad and pen from his jacket pocket.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

Sammy nodded, and started tidying up the packages of gum spilt all over the counter.

“Eyah. Round nine this morning, I’m working the register, this young man comes in, wearing one’a them masks the kids wear when it’s real cold out, the knit kind. It’s months ’til the first cold snap comes through, so I knew somethin’ was wrong. I keep a shotgun back here—” Sammy picked up the weapon, tucked beneath the counter, and showed it to Ray. Ray took it, examined the chamber, and handed it back. “—but before I could reach it, he’s got his pistol out, telling me to hand over all the cash.”

“And you did.”

“Sure I did. Couple hundred dollars ain’t worth getting shot over. I emptied the till into a paper bag, handed it over. We got a safe in the back where we keep money for changing out and everything, but he didn’t say nothing about that, so I didn’t, either. I gave him the money, he knocked over some shit, told me if I called the police, he’d kill me. I waited ’til he run off, then called you all. Not letting some little shit too lazy to do a real day’s work tell me what to do. I built this business from the ground, been around since he was in diapers, prob’ly.”

“He leave on foot?”

“Yeah, ran outta here, and I mean ran.”

“Did you see which direction he was headed?”

Sammy pointed behind himself. Ray wrote _east_ on his pad.

“What did you do after he left?” he asked.

“I called the police, and then I started cleaning up.”

“You didn’t try to chase him, anything like that?”

“Hell no,” Sammy said. “I’m too old to be running after kids with guns. Ain’t that your job, young buck?”

“Yes, sir. You did the right thing.” He glanced around the store, the old woman still inching down the aisles. “Were there any customers in the store or out front when he came through here? Any other employees?”

“Only employees I got are my grandkids, and they only work summers and after school. Had a quote-unquote ‘customer,’ but he was really just usin’ the bathroom free. Don’t imagine he saw much from in there.”

Ray studied the store’s perimeter. “Do you have security cameras on the premises?”

Sammy laughed. “You kiddin’?”

“Can you give me a description of the man? What did he look like?”

“Dunno much; he had that mask on. But he was short—what do you go, six foot, six-one, maybe?”

“Six even.”

“Eyah, you prob’ly got five, six inches on him. And he was skinny, but he was wearing baggy clothes, like he pretends he ain’t.”

“What was he wearing, besides the mask?”

“Jeans and a t-shirt—both of them a few days past needing a wash. Sneakers. Looked like any other punk comes in here.”

Ray tapped his pen against the pad. “What can you tell me about the gun?”

Sammy shrugged. “Dunno much about them, to be honest. It was one’a them handguns, that I know. Seemed huge to me, but it was in my face threatening to go off, so I prob’ly ain’t, whattya call it, unbiased.”

Ray nodded, and tried not to look disappointed. Not much to go on.

“Okay, Mr. Moon Dog. I’m going to get my kit, and collect some evidence.” He frowned at Sammy’s continuing cleanup efforts. “Try not to throw everything away before I get back, okay?”

***

Ray spent a few hours processing Sammy Moon Dog’s, and canvassing the neighborhood for potential witnesses. He returned to the station pessimistic. No one had seen anything, the only possible evidence was a few fingerprints, and there was no guaranteeing they didn’t belong to Mr. Moon Dog or one of his customers.

Ray sent his evidence packet off to the FBI lab in Rapid City, wondering briefly if _liaison_ was Latin for _courier_ , and stuck his head in Crow Horse’s office.

“Lunch?”

Crow Horse was growling over the Everest of paperwork on his desk.

“Maybe I’ll have time for that tomorrow,” Crow Horse said. “Where you been all morning?”

“211 at Sammy Moon Dog’s.”

Crow Horse frowned at him. “Where’s the report? I don’t run this department on show and tell, Ray.”

“I just got back five minutes ago, so let’s say it’s in the planning stages.” Ray entered the room, sank into the chair opposite Crow Horse’s desk. “You okay? You seem surlier than usual.”

Crow Horse sighed. “Yankton PD wants to come up here, take a look at our operation.”

“So? It’s just another rez’s PD, right? What’s the big deal?”

“It’s another complication we don’t need, Ray,” Crow Horse snapped. “One more thing to look after.”

Ray poked his tongue into his cheek.

“I don’t know why you’re snarling at me,” he said carefully, “but if I’ve done something to piss you off, you might start by telling me what it is.”

Crow Horse dropped his papers to his desk, and studied Ray for a long moment.

Finally, he said, “It ain’t you. Well, nothing you’ve done. It’s your fault they’re comin’, but that’s my fault, really.”

Ray knit his brow. “I don’t get it.”

Crow Horse sighed. “Gave a talk at that damn BIA Justice Services thing last month, talking about how the department’s changed since we took you on as Fed liaison. Between that and the numbers we been putting out, I guess some people are pretty excited, and the Yanktons wanna send some of their boys up here to check us out.”

“I still don’t understand why you’re upset about it. I mean, you’re happy with the work I’ve done here, aren’t you?”

Crow Horse’s face softened. “Of course I am. It’s—never mind.”

“Walter—”

“Just forget it, _kola_ ,” Crow Horse said. He pushed his chair away from his desk, stood up. “I changed my mind; I got time for lunch. What are you hungry for?”

***

Lunch was fine, and then Ray went back to work on Sammy Moon Dog’s robbery. He was good at his job, and liked it besides, and having a problem to solve gave him excellent focus. He became completely absorbed, enough to forget the little tiff with Crow Horse. That is, until that night. The two of them were settling down to sleep, Crow Horse’s back to Ray, and Ray slid the silky curtain of Crow Horse’s hair from his neck, and kissed his shoulder. Crow Horse shuddered him off.

“Long day, hoss,” he said. “Leave it.”

Ray flushed, embarrassed and stung as if he’d misread the signs on a first date, and turned quickly onto his back, far enough from Crow Horse that they weren’t touching.

“Sorry,” he said.

Crow Horse made a formless, noncommittal noise, a verbal shrug. Ray stared at the ceiling, trying to swallow down the knot of shame and nausea choking off his air. It didn’t mean anything. They didn’t have sex every night; there had been a definite decline once they got used to each other and the routine of their life, but that’s what always happened. They were lucky that their relationship still worked when they weren’t in bed. And it did. It did work, almost all of the time.

Still, Ray had never felt like this with Walter. And he had never felt like Walter was keeping something from him on purpose, like he had in Walter’s office that afternoon.

Ray swallowed it down. It was nothing. It was fine.

***

Ray woke alone, which wasn’t a big deal. Then he discovered that Crow Horse had left for the station without him, which was. Ray realized the house was empty and was struck by such nausea that he had to sit down. Jimmy, who was good at noticing when people were upset or at petting height, nuzzled Ray’s knee until Ray scratched his ears.

“Shit,” he said aloud.

He continued petting Jimmy, and reviewed his options. Maybe this was normal, part of the post-honeymoon period cooling. Or maybe Walter was so mad at him he couldn’t even tell him why, couldn’t even stand to look at him. Ray thought back over the past weeks for anything he could have done to upset Walter like that, and couldn’t think of anything.

“Shit,” he said again.

Ray got dressed and went to work, because he didn’t know what else to do, besides sit with the dog and torture himself. Walter’s cruiser was at the station; usually Ray parked next to him, but today he left his car on the other side of the lot, just in case Walter couldn’t stand to look at him.

Ray checked dispatch for calls, but there weren’t any. The evidence from the Sammy Moon Dog case still hadn’t come in, which meant Ray had exactly nothing to do. He wanted to avoid it, but Crow Horse was his boss, so he didn’t have a choice. Ray knocked on the door to Walter’s office.

“Eyah, come in.”

Crow Horse was at his desk, accompanied as usual by coffee and a mess of papers.

“Just checking in,” Ray said softly, stopping a good three feet from the desk. “Terry doesn’t have any calls for me, so I just thought I’d see if you had anything you needed.”

“Where are you on your 211?”

“Waiting for evidence to come back from Rapid.”

“Nothing you can do without it?”

“No,” Ray admitted. “I’m stuck.”

Crow Horse nodded. “All right. Why don’t you baby-sit dispatch for a while; tell George to take Terry on his rounds.”

Ray felt like he’d taken a gut shot. Sure, working for the rez PD was a different game altogether, and usually no one gave a shit about his background or his degree or his conviction record. Everyone helped everyone any way they could, the way the rez worked all over. But this meant the same and hurt as bad as when Coutelle had benched him during the fight with the GOONs after the shootout at Maggie’s—hurt worse, in fact, because Coutelle had been using him and he’d been the kid in that equation besides, but Walter respected him and they were supposed to be partners, so it should have been different.

Maybe things were, though. Different. And that was the problem, because Ray had been using all of his detective skills in trying to figure out what was wrong with him and Walter, and he was still clueless. You couldn’t win a game you didn’t know the rules too. You just couldn’t.

Ray bit his tongue.

“Yes, sir,” he said quietly, and left to go relieve Terry.

***

Ray was reaching the tipping point of being mad at Walter for treating him like this but madder at himself for taking it. He was not by nature compliant, but he was careful and could have soft hands when it was required, and some nagging part of him was sure that he was overreacting, and the only smart move was to ride it out.

Crow Horse small-talked through dinner like nothing was wrong, but when they went to bed, he begged off before Ray could even touch him. Ray couldn’t stand to be that close to Walter anymore with that feeling in his chest, so he mumbled something about taking a walk and left the room.

Ray stood out on the back porch, watching the acres of prairie rolling out into the dark night. It had taken a long time for him to become used to how dark the nights got out here: no streetlights or illuminated buildings; just a galaxy of sparkling stars, and the low, yellow lights of home fires burning. Desert nights were cold, the heat of the day falling away as soon as the sun went down. Ray felt the chill like little bites on his poorly covered skin. He rubbed halfheartedly at the goosebumps spotting his bare arms, and then decided he liked the discomfort, and left it alone.

He looked back, briefly, at the sleeping house behind him. Then he slipped a hand into his shorts, the discomfort of his unrequited erection. It was ridiculous; his whole adult life he had been in control of himself, and now Walter had him conditioned so he started getting hard as they were getting ready for bed. He hadn’t been so governed by what was going on in his underwear since he’d started needing to shave every day.

Ray palmed his cock, tried for a moment to relieve the tension, but found himself unable to maintain interest. This isn’t what he wanted. He didn’t want sex; he wanted sex with Walter. He wanted to feel loved and connected and he wanted to feel like he was half of a partnership.

This isn’t what he wanted. And he was too old for this shit.

Ray pulled his hand back, self-loathing roiling in his gut. And then, with precocious flashback, looked around to make sure he hadn’t been seen. But he was still alone; the nearest neighbors were miles away. Even with the dearth of people on top of you, so different from city life, Ray usually did not feel so alone.

***

He had probably been too green for his first solo undercover job. But he had been at the top of his class at Quantico, and the smaller, more supervised jobs he’d done had all ended in convictions. And he had been so eager that he would have taken on anything, the world, so moving into a shitty apartment in Anacostia and getting to know the dope trade was just another target to tilt at. He had been picked because he was smart, and driven, and because he learned fast and had a faculty for languages. And, because of his mixed pedigree, he came off as racially ambiguous. It had not been stated, and his Indian blood had never been mentioned, but Ray had been told, bitingly, by one of his peers, that they had been passed over for a good gig because Ray could pass as dago, and what the hell kind of thing was that to encourage?

In preparation, Ray had spent countless hours in the language lab. He read the pertinent case files so many times he memorized them. His handler provided him with a cover, and the necessary paperwork, but most of the work was Ray’s. He memorized the case files, and the facts of his cover ID. But he didn’t begin to build his persona until he was on the ground. He needed to see and smell and taste his environment, to dress in the cover’s clothes and look at himself in the mirror to know who he was, how he spoke, how he walked. Ray wasn’t sure, really, how it worked, but the process came naturally.

His first few weeks undercover as a runner for the dope trade in Anacostia, Ray had had to short a shipment. The reasons were twofold: to give product samples to the Bureau labs, and to create a perceived weakness his contacts could exploit. People always felt better if they thought they had one over on you. He hadn’t pinched much, just enough for the lab, maybe eighty dollars worth; it was the kind of thing that was routinely done, but it was not the kind of thing that was tolerated if you got caught, and Ray knew he had to get caught. They wouldn’t kill him for an eighty dollar transgression, but Ray knew going in that they would let him know that they knew, and they would let him know what would happen if he did it again.

For the first time in his life, Ray had been so nervous that he had been sick; he spent the night before the meeting white-knuckled on his knees in the bathroom. Undercover work on the whole was not good for his appetite; he came out of the Anacostia job twenty pounds lighter than he’d gone in. The next day, they had broken two ribs, and Ray had just had to take the beating; until the stronghold, it was the hardest thing he had ever had to do, but he had gotten through it, all on his own.

***

Ray stood on Crow Horse’s porch, looking out into the dark desert night. He felt the loneliness inside his body like an injury, as profound and singular as years ago, on the peeling linoleum floor of his shitty undercover apartment, waiting for sunrise and the inevitable.  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  



	2. Pack Mentality

  
Ray spent another agonizing morning wrestling with the Indian Health Service. It was like another world. Or a circle of hell, maybe. Ray had spent most of his adult life working for the federal government; he had literally dealt with government bureaucracy every day. He had _been_ the fucking government bureaucracy. And he had never felt so frustrated and nameless; even when he’d been a cog in the machine, he had still felt like himself. Special Agent Raymond Levoi, working for—and then against—the government. He’d had a name; now he was just another fringe mutt trying to work the system. He wasn’t even a number; he was a fraction: full-blood white plus one-half Sioux equals what?

At first Ray had tried to be smooth, sweet-talking the _Wasi’chu_ BIA ladies, using his knowledge of the government bureaucracy. It would only take a few minutes to get this sorted out, surely.

But his in-speak hadn’t gotten him anywhere. Ray, whose only run-in with the law had been that speeding ticket Crow Horse had written him solely to get him lathered up, had felt like a criminal. That was how he had been treated, like he could not be trusted, like he was trying to steal something. He had been treated worse as a federal agent—been cursed at, threatened, shot at, spit on—but it had never made him feel like this, devalued and degraded. It was a question of power, he guessed; regardless of the other variables, having power was always easier than not having it.

Ray waited nearly an hour past his appointment, shifting and sliding in the uncomfortable plastic chairs in the waiting room.

“Leevoy?”

Ray walked back to sit in another painful government chair before the desk of a middle-aged _Wasi’chu_ woman.

“It’s ‘Levoi,’ ma’am,” he said.

The BIA woman looked down at Ray’s file, and then back up at him over the rims of her glasses.

“My records show you were just here at the beginning of the week, Mr. _Levoi_. Has there been a change in your status?”

Ray shifted in his chair. Maintaining purchase on the slick surface was difficult. “I hope so, ma’am.” The BIA woman just looked at him, so he added, “My application is still pending, and I need—”

“Do you have documentation of tribal affiliation?”

“No, ma’am. I’ve submitted—”

The BIA woman closed Ray’s file. “Bring in documentation of tribal affiliation, and your application will be reviewed for approval.”

“But—”

“Thank you, Mr. Levoi.”

The BIA woman stood behind her desk, one hand on the back of the chair, the other holding Ray’s file. She just looked at him from behind her glasses until Ray stood to leave.

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

***

Ray stopped at Sammy Moon Dog’s on his way to the station.

“Solve my case yet, Mr. FBI Liaison?”

“No, sir. I just thought I’d stop by to see if you’ve thought of anything else that might be pertinent to the investigation.”

“‘Pertinent to the investigation.’ Listen to all them twenty-dollar words.” Sammy shook his head. “I’m afraid not, son. I have been trying not to get held up again, though.”

Ray opened his mouth to offer protest, or reassurance. Sammy clapped him on the shoulder.

“Cheer up there, Ray. I got faith in you. You’ll catch that sumbitch yet, young buck.”

Sammy went to scold a customer using the gas pump improperly. Ray pawed through his pockets until he found a dime, and then went to use the payphone.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hello, sweetheart. How are you? How’s Walter?”

The question stung. Ray shook it off. “We’re fine, Mom. Look, I need a favor. I don’t know—do you have anything of my father’s that might have information about his Indian blood?”

There was a long pause, hesitation.

“Oh, Raymond, I don’t know. I’ll look, but you shouldn’t get your hopes up.”

Ray had known going in that it was a long shot, but that didn’t make the failure hurt less.

“Yes, ma’am. I just—I would appreciate it if you’d look.”

His mother must have caught something in his voice that he hadn’t meant to let loose, because she asked, gently, “Are you okay?”

Ray had it all worked out in his head: he would tell her about his problems with IHS, and that would explain everything away.

Unfortunately, it turned out Ray was unable to lie to his mother, no matter how logical a decision it might have been.

“Walter and I are fighting,” he said instead.

“What about?”

“I don’t know.”

“Raymond.”

“I really don’t know,” he said. “I mean, we get each other’s hackles up all the time, but nothing like this. And I don’t—it just seems like it came out of nowhere, and I don’t know why.”

“Have you thought about asking him?”

Ray sighed. “Yeah, I mean, I’ve thought about it, but I—I don’t know. It’s like maybe I hope I’m imagining it, or that things will work out on their own. If I say something, it just makes it real, or it makes an issue where there isn’t one. And we don’t really talk like that, so—”

“So you would be uncomfortable,” his mother said. “You love him, don’t you?”

Ray closed his eyes. He let the weary weight of his head fall against the plastic paneling of the payphone kiosk.

“Yes,” he said.

For a moment, he thought he may have spoken too quietly to be heard, but he couldn’t make his voice any bigger.

“And he loves you?” his mother said.

“I think so. Yes.”

“That’s worth a little discomfort, don’t you think?”

Ray didn’t know if it was because she was his mother, or just because she had known him so long, but no one could make him feel so childish, so obtuse. She was not, he knew, doing it to be unkind. He needed to hear these things; it was good for him. Still. It wasn’t good for his pride.

“Yes, ma’am.”

***

Ray thought discussing their private life at work was a bad idea, but maybe this time he should have. The conversation simmered too long without release, so the moment they stepped inside the house it boiled over.

“So, when are you planning on letting me in on why you’re so pissed at me? Just let me know. I’ll mark my calendar.”

The question stopped Crow Horse on his way to the bedroom. He threw his jacket to the living room couch, and sized Ray up for a moment before responding.

“I told you already. I ain’t mad at you.”

Ray had been planning on decorum and an even temper, but his plans soon fell through.

“Then why are you treating me like this?”

When Ray had selected the words in his mind, they had been stated calmly, a gentle inquiry. But, like a chemical that reacted violently with air, they left his mouth in an explosion. Unfortunately, the air was not all they reacted badly with. Crow Horse’s jaw went steel taut, and he took a heavy step toward Ray, one meant to drive him back, make him flinch. Ray stood his ground, but that only made Crow Horse angrier. Not mad, indeed.

“Treating you like what? Like some hard on can’t keep his temper in check?”

Ray’s hands balled into fists with the same automatic, complete removal from his control as the flush burning over his face. He took a step forward, hoping to force Crow Horse to give him some space, but Crow Horse was angrier than Ray had realized, and instead of backing up, drove the heel of his hand into Ray’s sternum, shoving him back half a foot and into the arm of the couch.

“Like. What.”

In the minute he had to catalogue the list of ways Crow Horse had been showing his disdain for him the past few days, Ray’s anger died.

“Like you can’t stand to look at me,” he said softly. “Like you can’t bear to be in the same room with me. Like the thought of touching me makes you sick.”

The hard line of Crow Horse’s tensed jaw softened, and some of the fire went out of his eyes.

“I never said that,” he said.

Ray winced. “No. You haven’t said anything; you’ve just been giving me these pat words that don’t mean anything, and your actions—”

Crow Horse grabbed Ray so hard that he would wake the next day with bruises on his arms, perfect egg-shaped copies of the pads of Walter’s fingers. Walter pulled Ray against him; Ray was too caught off guard to do anything but be dragged along, his shoes squeaking over the hardwood. Walter kissed him so hard Ray lost his breath, and when they parted, he was panting and dizzy.

“Actions, huh?” Crow Horse said.

Crow Horse spun Ray around. Ray was still lightheaded from being so thoroughly kissed, and closed his eyes to the world spinning around him. He felt giddy, and took a deep breath, trying to beat the feeling down, to become grounded again. Crow Horse forced him over the arm of the sofa, knocking the air from him just as he was getting it back. Ray was so stunned it took him a moment to feel Crow Horse’s hands reaching around his waist, fumbling with his belt and fly. Crow Horse forced Ray’s pants down, and pushed him forward over the couch arm, his hand weighing at the small of Ray’s back. Crow Horse pushed into him, without tenderness or preamble, and then struck up a hard, fast tempo. After a moment, the shock died down, and Ray felt every moment of unanswered desire he had felt the past several days swell in him. He was reminded of his first time, endless hours of wanting finally released.

It had only been three days. How could he be that desperate for Walter after only three days?

He still could not understand why Walter had been acting the way he had; Ray could feel in the fervor with which Walter thrust into him, in his fingers gripping into his hips, that Walter was starving for him, too. It didn’t make any sense, but Ray couldn’t keep his mind there long enough to work it out, not now, not with the flood of lust overtaking him.

Ray moaned and tried to find friction against the couch, but Walter’s hand on his back anchored him, making the necessary movement difficult. Ray tried to reach a hand down to take care of it that way, but Walter brushed him away, reaching around Ray’s waist with his free hand. He was gentler here, and slower, the pace a light melody against the driving base rhythm.

“Is this what you want?” Crow Horse asked.

It wasn’t the question that caught Ray off guard, but speech itself. They usually didn’t speak much during, and the sparse discussion was generally fond ribbing. Crow Horse didn’t talk dirty.

“Say it,” Crow Horse said.

“Yes,” Ray whispered.

“Say it.”

Ray felt ashamed, and then, he realized with another wash of embarrassment, very turned on.

“I want you to fuck me.”

And he did. Walter thrust into him, and Ray thrust against Walter’s palm. He closed his eyes, and tried to just become lost in the sensation of being with Walter, of feeling him inside him and all around him.

Walter spoke again, breathless. “Do you love me?”

Ray froze. It wasn’t that the words themselves offended him. He had, in fact—many times—considered saying them himself; it was just that Walter would make fun of him, so he’d kept his mouth shut. Ray felt wary; he didn’t understand how or why the rules were changing.

“Yes, Walter, I—”

“Say it.”

“I love you,” Ray said.

Walter bucked against him as his tension released, and a moment over, the comforting familiarity of Walter’s weight settling over his back, Ray came, pushing desperately into Walter’s hand.

Ray turned to look Walter in the face, but the second he moved, Crow Horse stepped away, yanking up his pants and hiding his face under pretense of dealing with his belt. Ray started after him, then tripped over his pants around his ankles. By the time he’d righted his clothes enough to follow, Crow Horse was in the shower.

***

Probably he should have known better than to rush in head first, but when he got a fire lit under him Ray had trouble applying the brakes.

“Listen,” Ray said, pulling back the shower curtain. “I don’t know what’s up with you, but I’m fucking tired of it.”

Crow Horse cursed and tried to yank the shower curtain back in place, but Ray refused to let go.

“Goddammit, Ray, you’re lettin’ the draft in. We got problems with the water bill as it is.”

Ray shut the water off.

“I get it if you don’t want to tell me what’s up with you. I’m not really happy about it, but if you need secrets, that’s fine. But it’s not fair to treat me like this. I—” It was harder to say face to face, but it needed to be said. “I love you, you asshole, and—you don’t have to say it, but you have to fucking do it.”

Ray realized, somewhere in the periphery, that he was shaking. Walter’s face softened, and for the first time in a while he was looking at Ray just to see him. Walter stepped out of the shower and folded Ray against him. Ray’s clothes soaked up the water dripping down Walter’s body, soaked through to Ray’s skin, sticking them together.

***

Ray got out of the shower to find Crow Horse fretting before the mirror. Ray froze for a moment in the doorway, studying Crow Horse and his reflection. Kind of odd, to be able to see all three hundred and sixty degrees of him at once, but odder still to see him in khakis and dress shoes and a button-up shirt that looked as though it had actually been ironed.

“You look nice,” Ray said.

Crow Horse grumbled, and pulled irritably at his collar. Ray tried to keep his grin under wraps; Crow Horse did look handsome, but also like a child forced into his Sunday best, longing for mud and freedom.

“What’s the occasion?” Ray asked.

“Damn Yanktons comin’ in today. Suppose I better look presentable.”

Ray frowned. He put his jeans away, and went to the closet instead.

“I didn’t know that was so soon,” he said. “You could have warned me.”

Crow Horse shrugged, still eyeing his mirror counterpart. “Didn’t think it much mattered to you.” He caught a flicker of Ray dressing in the background, and turned. “What’re you doing?”

Ray sat on the bed to put his shoes on. “I thought you wanted us to look presentable.”

The corner of Crow Horse’s mouth tugged up, and he left the mirror to go harass Ray in his suit. Ray sat looking up as Crow Horse crowded his personal space, fingered the practiced knot of his tie.

“Presentable,” he said slowly. “Us.”

Crow Horse worked a finger into the knot of Ray’s tie, slowly worked it loose. He slid the silk snake from around Ray’s neck, and then unbuttoned the top buttons of Ray’s perfectly pressed shirt.

“Don’t want to show up too starched,” Crow Horse said. “You might get mistaken for a Fed, start scarin’ people off.”

“I am a Fed,” Ray protested weakly.

Crow Horse crawled onto the bed; he crawled over Ray, pressing him back to the mattress.

“Well, yeah,” Crow Horse said. “Sometimes you are.”

Walter kissed Ray, his hands on Ray’s body beneath the starch of his jacket, rumpling his impeccably ironed shirt.

“Think of it as business casual,” Walter said. His hands around Ray’s waist, pulling the tail of his shirt out of his trousers, his hands on Ray’s bare hips, and loosing the buttons and zipper of Ray’s fly.

Ray groaned. “Listen, I really like the way this conversation is headed, but we’re going to be late. Very, very late.”

Crow Horse bit Ray’s neck. “We can be late. Benefits of sleeping with the boss.”

“What about the Yanktons?”

“They ain’t comin’ ’til ten. We got time.”

Ray pushed Crow Horse to his back, straddling him at the waist. “I don’t know what you had planned, but I may need more time than that.”

Crow Horse grinned. “Then we’ll be late.”

***

They were late, but so were the Yanktons, who got lost in the maze of poorly marked reservation roads. Ray and what was left of his suit—tie gone; shirt open at the collar, and all the starch worked out by Crow Horse’s enthusiastic hands—went to his desk and found the evidence report back from Rapid City. Print packages: six unique sets, one belonging to Sammy Moon Dog, and one to his granddaughter, who worked the store after school. The rest were mysteries; no hits in any of the relevant databases. Well. Square one, then.

“Whatcha got there?”

Ray turned to find Crow Horse and two Indian men in suits. Real, grownup suits, with ties and pleats and all the buttons they’d left the factory with, because _their_ boyfriends didn’t enjoy snapping them off their shirtfronts when they could just take three more seconds and slide the damn things through the buttonholes like God and Brooks Brothers had intended.

“Evidence from Sammy Moon Dog’s,” Ray said, and stood, print packages in hand. “Not much help, though.”

“Ray, this here’s Mr. Little Valley and Mr. Keeps the Pipe from the Yankton rez down south. Gentlemen, our Fed liaison, Special Agent Raymond Levoi.”

Ray shook hands. “Nice to meet you.”

Crow Horse nodded to the print packages in Ray’s hand. “Ray’s working an armed robbery.”

The Yanktons exchanged a look.

“Really?” Little Valley said.

“Yup,” Crow Horse said. “And he don’t even have to be principal; any member of the department can work a Major Crimes case, so long as Ray here signs off on it and handles the Fed office in Rapid City when we need it.”

“And that’s all legal,” Keeps the Pipe said.

“Eyah,” Crow Horse said. “We can’t try ’em here, but that’s fine by me. I don’t have nothing to do with the courts. But we can work the case, make the arrest, and it all holds up legal when they go to _Wasi’chu_ courts. Once we got someone, Ray gives the Feds in Rapid City a call, and they come down for the transfer. It’s a good system; we get jurisdiction, and we don’t have to clog up our jailhouse with serious offenders.”

“That’s fantastic,” Keeps the Pipe said.

“May I see those, Agent?” Little Valley asked.

Ray handed him the print packages. “It’s Ray, really.”

Mr. Little Valley looked over the reports. “You do your forensics in house?”

“No,” Crow Horse said. “We use the Fed lab. Express mail. Little longer turn around, but if it’s important Ray can drive it.”

“Who pays for that?” Keeps the Pipe asked.

“The FBI,” Ray said. “They’d be paying for the forensics either way. The whole setup is actually cheaper for them, since the tribal PD pays my salary, and I only work billable hours for the FBI when we get a Major Crimes case.”

“Prob’ly means a big pay cut from what you been used to,” Little Valley said.

Ray shrugged.

“I’ve got perks,” he said, and briefly met Crow Horse’s eyes.

Mr. Keeps the Pipe studied the print packages another moment before handing them back to Ray.

“Fantastic,” he said.

He extended his hand to Ray again. “Agent Levoi.”

“Ray,” Ray said again, and shook his hand, and then Mr. Little Valley’s.

“A pleasure,” Little Valley said.

***

Ray was left to his own devices for the next half hour or so, which mostly meant agonizing over how to proceed with his 211 without any witnesses or evidence. Then he felt a presence shadowing his desk, and turned to find Mr. Keeps the Pipe and Mr. Little Valley standing behind him, which was odd because Ray was pretty sure he had seen Crow Horse show them out not a minute before.

“Agent Levoi,” Little Valley said.

“Please,” Ray said, coming to his feet, “call me Ray.”

“Listen, son,” Keeps the Pipe said, “you’re from a _Wasi’chu_ city, so I know you prefer—what’s the expression?—getting down to brass tacks. We like the work you’re doing for the Bear Creek Police Department, and we would like to offer you a job.”

Ray blinked.

“I have a job,” he said—stupid, but it was the only thing that came to mind.

“We’re prepared to double your salary,” Little Valley said. “And we hear you’re having trouble with IHS; we can expedite your tribal enrollment.”

Ray felt mentally clumsy, like he was missing the joke.

“I’m a Minniconjou,” Ray said. “I don’t think I have any Yankton blood.”

The Yanktons shared a brief look.

“Sioux’s Sioux,” Little Valley said.

Ray frowned. He hadn’t been living as an Indian very long, but he knew that wasn’t right.

“Look,” he said, “I appreciate the offer, but I have to decline. I’m sorry.”

“Agent Levoi—”

“Look, I know the thumb the FBI’s got you under, and it’s not fair. But I can’t fix it for you; I have responsibilities here. Maybe you could talk to the agent on your block, see if he can do something for you. I can’t.”

“Tell us what Crow Horse is giving you that’s keeping you here, and we’ll see what we can do to match it,” Keeps the Pipe said.

Ray stopped himself before he laughed.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I really am. But that’s not possible.”

***

Ray sleepwalked into Walter’s office. He felt like a traveler from another world, unused to even the smallest things: the atmosphere, gravity.

“You all right there, man?” Walter asked. “You’re looking a little pale, even for you.”

“The Yanktons came back to see me,” Ray said. “They offered me a job.”

Crow Horse’s spine went ramrod straight, like he’d been shocked. “What did you say?”

“What do you mean, what did I say? I said no! I mean, you don’t wanna move to another rez; your whole life is here—”

“So?” Crow Horse said. “ _My_ whole life. They didn’t ask me.”

Ray flushed violently. He thought he might be sick.

“Is that a joke?” he said. “I moved half a world away to be with you. I worked my whole life to be well thought of at the FBI, and now I’m a punch line there, a pariah. This is going to be the last job I ever have, Walter. And I can’t even explain why, not to the Bureau, not even to the Yanktons; it’s not like we’re married; they won’t understand, and so it’s like I just scrubbed out. And worse, my family—it’s been almost a year since I’ve seen my mother, and my father won’t even talk to me—”

Crow Horse left his desk, came within feet of Ray.

“That ain’t my fault,” Crow Horse said. “I didn’t ask you to do any of that.”

“You didn’t _have to_.”

Ray looked at Crow Horse’s drawn face, and realization dawned.

“You knew that’s why they were coming,” Ray said. “That’s why you’ve been up my ass, because you thought I might be leaving? Why didn’t you just _tell me_ , and then I could have told you that there was nothing to worry about, and you were being stupid?”

Crow Horse shrugged. “No use me telling you anything. You’re a free man, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m _not_!” Ray tried to keep his voice down, but his temper was straining at the leash, and he ended up shouting. “I am—well, I’m with _you_ , and I’m not sure what we are, but I’m sure as hell not _free_!”

“So I’m, what, holding you back?”

Crow Horse slammed both palms into Ray’s chest. Ray stumbled back, and then rushed Crow Horse, swinging wildly. He was too upset to aim, and missed by a large margin, lurching forward off the momentum. Crow Horse caught him mid-motion, jerked him upright.

“Settle down,” Crow Horse growled.

“You tether me, I guess,” Ray said. He was shaking. “And it makes me less free, but I wouldn’t trade it. And I hope that you wouldn’t trade me, either.”

Walter’s face softened. “Ray—”

Ray tried to work the nerves from his body, but he only shook more. “You can’t—you can’t keep things from me, or lie to me—”

“You said you didn’t care about that.”

“Well, I lied. Which, yeah, I know, doesn’t exactly strengthen my case, here, but I bet way too much on this, and—”

“Me too, Ray. I’m sorry.”

Walter put his hands on Ray, arrested his nervous movement. Ray took a breath, and concentrated on the gentle restraining force of Walter’s hands on him. He stopped shaking.

Crow Horse’s office door swung open, and Terry’s head poked in.

“Not now,” Crow Horse barked.

“Yeah, uh, sorry, boss,” Terry said. “But we got a call, another 211, this one down at that liquor store in Red Crow, Blind Coyote? Only someone got shot this time.”

Crow Horse cursed. “All right. Ray, I want you on scene; I’ll go to the clinic to talk to the victim.”

“Oh, no,” Terry said. “They didn’t take her to the clinic. She, um, she died on scene.”  



	3. Coyote Ugly

  
Part of working with so small a police department was getting used to being first on scene more often than not. Ray had joined the FBI straight out of college; before coming to the rez, he had never worked any other kind of law enforcement. Federal officers were always called in later, after the basic facts of the case were assessed and somebody made a decision about jurisdiction; there were always local cops on scene long before Ray got there. Even in most police departments, patrolmen were the first on scene, and detectives were called in later, but the rez didn’t have extra officers to prep and hold down the fort before the investigation began.

There were witnesses this time, which would be good in the long run, but immediately meant that there were a lot of people to be comforted and corralled. Ray was glad he was there with Crow Horse: he excelled at this public relations stuff, and he knew most everyone on the rez; having him there made Ray feel more confident, less like he was missing the joke.

Once they got everyone settled down, Crow Horse and George started taking statements, and Ray went to contend with the body. Deceased was Blind Coyote owner Jackie Spotted Elk, forty-two. She had been shot three times close range with a small caliber handgun; given the weapon and range, the wounds were neat, small holes without much blood or tattooing. They looked almost innocuous, more like birthmarks or some of that body modification shit than cause of death.

Ray could only hear snippets of the conversations going on behind him, but he could fill in the blanks on his own. The store had been held up; Mrs. Spotted Elk had been less amenable to the idea of giving up her hard earned money than Sammy Moon Dog had been; the robber had not been interested in negotiating.

Ray collected evidence, snapped some photographs of the DB and the scene. They had taken the department van, which Ray would need to transport the corpse to the medical examiner in Rapid City, the only part of his job he really loathed. When Ray was finished processing the body, he caught Crow Horse’s eye; Crow Horse nodded, and in a moment came over to help Ray lift Mrs. Spotted Elk onto the gurney.

“Getting anywhere?” Ray asked.

Crow Horse shrugged. “They all got the same story, which is good. Everyone minding their own business, skinny fella comes in with a ski mask and a gun, asks for the money in the register. Jackie here refused, and he blew her away without so much as a warning.” He sighed. “Damn shame, Ray.”

Crow Horse helped Ray secure the gurney in the back of the van.

“That’s it?” Ray asked. “He just asked for the money in the till, and that’s all?”

Crow Horse nodded. Ray frowned.

“Like at Sammy Moon Dog’s,” he said. “The guy didn’t think to ask for the money in the safe.”

“No saying it’s the same guy,” Crow Horse said. “Sorry to say, but armed robbery ain’t exactly uncommon around here.”

Ray shrugged. “Same MO, same general description. Maybe we’ll get lucky and match some prints.”

They hopped out of the van, and Ray shut the back doors.

“Sammy Moon Dog said the guy only took him for a couple hundred dollars, Walter,” he said.

“Yeah, that’s prob’ly what he got away with here, too. And?”

Ray shook his head. “Nothing. It just makes it harder, that she was killed over so little.”

Crow Horse nodded. “Yeah, well, it’s hard all around.”

***

Ray helped George process the rest of the scene; that way he could take all the evidence down to Rapid at the same time. Crow Horse saw to finishing up the witness statements, and then directed traffic a bit, trying to steer away folks slowing down to gawk at the crime scene tape. It was coming on to evening when Ray and George finished, and Ray was glad for his suit jacket. George’s cruiser was just the red eyes of taillights down the darkening road, and Crow Horse did one last walkthrough of the scene, then came around to the driver’s side of the department van and opened Ray’s door for him.

Ray stayed a moment, caught between the body of the van and the metal wing of the door, looking at Crow Horse half through the distortion of the window and half through just plain air.

“Can you come with me?” he asked. “I’ll be getting back late.”

Crow Horse just looked at him a moment, and for a second Ray was paralyzed by the uncertainty and disconnectedness of the past few days. But it was just a second, and then it was over, and Crow Horse was nodding, and he was getting into the car.

***

Ray wasn’t sure which was stranger: driving out of the rez at night, or driving into it. Driving out, the stark blackness of the desert night gave way slowly to streetlight illumination, and then to the supernova of the lighted city. Driving in, the artificial day and glass smooth roads of the city degraded into rocking axles and darkness. Either way, it was like traveling through time.

The night shift was on at the FBI lab, which meant most of the special agents were out. Ray preferred it that way; the lab guys and cub agents generally had no idea of him beyond business as usual, so infiltration and extraction were merely matters of paperwork, not ego measuring.

The medical examiner was out, and the coroner’s assistant glanced over Jackie Spotted Elk’s white sheet shadow with the same boredom with which he regarded the forms accompanying her.

“Thank you kindly, Special Agent Levoi,” he said, and slid Jackie into a drawer.

Twice in one day he’d been called that; it was shameful, maybe, but hearing it still made Ray proud, even if most days it was only a technicality. Crow Horse was looking at him, and Ray turned his face away, afraid Crow Horse could see his pride, but then Walter put a hand on his shoulder and led him back to the van.

They had dinner at a Thai place, which Ray recognized as a concession, since Walter didn’t like spicy food and was personally offended by chopsticks, and then made love in the back of the van. It came on sudden, like a storm at sea, like laughter, and afterwards—despite the abrasions on his knees and more buttons suddenly missing from his shirt—Ray almost felt like it didn’t happen. He sat in the passenger’s seat, soaking up the strange of shuttling back into the past, watching the lights fall away. Walter looked over at him, and grinned, and Ray felt suddenly tethered to the moment, and he knew where he was and where he was going, and he knew that he was going home.

***

“Listen, Terry, it’s nobody’s fault. But next time, let’s be sure to read _all_ the directions before trying out the pepper spray, okay?”

Ray caught Crow Horse’s eye from across the station, and nodded towards Crow Horse’s office. Crow Horse held up a finger—his index finger, not the usual—and clapped Terry on the shoulder.

“Just think on it, okay, _kola_? Safety first.”

Ray and a large envelope were sitting on Crow Horse’s desk when he entered his office. Crow Horse tried to be annoyed, but he felt so relieved after the shit storm with the Yanktons that he couldn’t manage it for more than a few seconds.

“What are you so goddamn chipper about?” Crow Horse demanded. “There a sale on white bread and twenty dollar haircuts at the general store?”

“Fuck you. I got the forensics back from the Blind Coyote shooting.”

“Well, let’s see,” Crow Horse said, crowding Ray’s personal space.

Ray kept the envelope closed. “Oh, no. Don’t you want to make fun of me some more, first?”

“There’s time for that later. Whatcha got?”

Ray frowned, but he pulled the forensics reports from the envelope. “Weapon’s a .22, probably a High Standard.”

“Pistol?”

“Yeah.” Ray ran his tongue along his teeth. “You see a lot of small handguns like that out here?”

“Sure, Ray. We got lotsa .22’s out here; people use them to scare off coyotes—”

“Rifles,” Ray said. “They use rifles to scare coyotes. This was a pistol, for sure. And a .22’s a small round for a pistol. Really small.”

Crow Horse shrugged. “Sure, but we still see a fair amount. People like to use them for target practice, teach their kids how to shoot—”

“But it’s a bad choice for an armed robber intending to shoot somebody,” Ray said. “I mean, if I thought I was going to have to shoot somebody, to stop them coming after me, I’d want the stopping power of a .45 at least—”

Crow Horse raised an eyebrow. “What universe has you knocking over convenience stores? You write expense reports when you accidentally take home pens from the station.”

Ray ignored him. “I bet he didn’t know any better. I bet he just picked up the gun because it was easy for him to get to, and he never gave it a second thought.”

Crow Horse frowned. “I don’t know why you’re getting so worked up over this, Ray. Sure, maybe not a crackerjack decision, but it killed Jackie Spotted Elk all right.”

“I just meant we’re not dealing with a professional,” Ray said.

“Hell, this ain’t the city, Ray. We don’t have professional robbers; they’d starve, just like everyone else. There’s no damn money here.” Ray gave him a look, and he relented. “Okay, chief. What else you got in there?”

“More evidence suggesting we’re not dealing with a professional,” Ray said, and pulled out some print packages. “Some of the prints we found on scene match prints from Sammy Moon Dog’s—”

“Not to pick at you here, man, but saying your suspect’s been involved in more than one robbery don’t really support your argument that he’s not a professional—”

“—and neither of them,” Ray said, raising his voice to talk over Crow Horse, “came up in any relevant databases, which means he’s never been arrested before.”

Crow Horse looked thoughtfully over the print packages. “Well, all right, _kola_. Not bad.”

***

Ray and Jimmy returned from the rez post office, which was run by Gramma Ghost Bear out of her kitchen, and only did delivery when her grandkids were out of school and around to do it. Jimmy bounded into the house like he had just returned from war, and jumped up on the couch, tail wagging, to tell Crow Horse all about his adventures. This upset Crow Horse’s slouching on the couch watching football thing, and also his beer, but Jimmy was eager to help clean that up.

Crow Horse stabbed some gestures at the dog.

“Goddammit, Ray, aren’tcha gonna do something about this?”

Ray looked up from sorting the mail, and scowled. “Are you letting him drink beer?”

Crow Horse sighed and slumped back into the age-soft sofa cushions, batting ineffectually at Jimmy’s attempts to cuddle.

Ray set the bills—the majority of the post—on the kitchen table to be dealt with later, and slit the seals of the package he’d received with a butter knife.

Crow Horse craned his neck to investigate. “Sure as hell hope that’s your enrollment shit from IHS.”

Ray frowned over the return address while walking back to the couch.

“It’s from my dad.”

Ray sat down and opened the box. He immediately went ashen.

Crow Horse frowned. “What’s the matter?” He peered over Jimmy to get a look at the contents of Ray’s package. “He sent you a box inside a box?”

Ray ground his teeth and closed the box back up, like he could restopper the feelings he had just loosed, a hope as foolish and fervent as Pandora’s.

“It’s the present I sent him for his birthday,” he said tightly. “I guess this is the civilized way of handling it; he could have just stamped _Return to Sender_ on it, and left me to wonder if he’d moved or died without anyone telling me.”

Crow Horse cursed. “Jesus, Ray, I’m—”

Ray shook him off, but his eyes were glued to the box. Crow Horse half reached over, half squished Jimmy—the damn thing had such an enormous capacity to not budge—and took the package from Ray.

Son of a bitch. Crow Horse’s animosity towards his father-in-law—or, shit, whatever the hell he was—was hardly novel, but that didn’t make it less real. Ray didn’t need this one right now, but instead of getting angry, he just got beat down. Crow Horse got angry for him.

“Well, he can’t get past where you put your dick, or who’s signing your paychecks, then good riddance.”

Ray didn’t say anything, and he kept staring down at his lap at the ghost of the package, so Crow Horse continued, “Look, I mean, I guess it’s taking him a while to get his shit together about this. But it’s on him, Ray; you can’t let it affect you like this. You just gotta . . . you gotta steel yourself. You know, be prepared for it, until it blows over.”

It was a hard line to walk, Ray and his family, and Crow Horse knew almost immediately that he’d said the wrong thing.

“I was eleven when my mom got remarried,” Ray said. His tone was measured, like he was translating his thoughts from another language. “My stepfather had been married before, but he had never had kids. But never once, not one time in my entire life, did he refer to me as his stepson. Never. When he was talking to me, or my mom, or when he was introducing me—even when he introduced me to his family—he always called me his son. Always. And I know this blood math stuff is hard for you, but my father died, and he left a long time before that, and I didn’t think I was going to get another chance at that, and he—the Colonel called me his son, Walter, and I thought it meant something. So fuck you, because no, I did not see this coming, and I did not store away any supplies or set up any sandbags or make any contingency plans.”

In light of his recent reading the riot act to Crow Horse over not keeping secrets, Ray probably should have stayed to talk it out, but he couldn’t. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. Without waiting for a response, Ray left the room, went down the hall, and shut himself in their bedroom. He sank to the bed and waited for it to pass. It was a long time before he could breathe again.

***

George was at dispatch, quizzing Terry on ten codes, when Ray walked in. George’s look was enough to stop Ray in his tracks; it was the look George gave his kids when they were trying to pass something by him.

“You got visitors,” was all he said.

The Yanktons were waiting for Ray at his desk. Ray sighed; he took off his jacket and slung it over the back of his chair, and he began to go through the paperwork waiting for him, like it was just a normal day.

“What can I do for you gentlemen?” he asked.

“We were hoping you had reconsidered our offer,” Little Valley said.

“No,” Ray said. “I’m sorry, but no.”

Mr. Keeps the Pipe brought some documents out of the interior pocket of his jacket. “We’ve had our tribal council get your tribe enrollment paperwork together. That’ll sort out all your problems with IHS, plus entitle you to land on our rez. Agent Levoi—”

Ray shook his head, and slapped his paperwork back to his desk.

“I can’t,” he said. “Look, I can make a call, if you want, to the SA on your block, maybe set up a meeting for you. But that’s all I can do—”

“We have spoken with the agent on our block,” Keeps the Pipe said. “He is not interested in collaboration—”

“Or even conversation,” Little Valley finished. “As far as he’s concerned, it’s the nineteenth century and he’s just minding the colonies.”

“We hate to be indelicate,” Keeps the Pipe said, “but we’re desperate.”

“I’m sorry,” Ray said, and he was. He exhaled slowly, like deflation, his shoulders slumping.

“Geez, you’re just liaising all over the place.”

Ray had been too distracted to hear Crow Horse’s boots on the station’s linoleum, but it was a rare occasion that someone missed his voice. He talked to be heard. Crow Horse sidled up to the threesome, thumbs hooked in his belt loops.

“You know,” he said conspiratorially to the Yanktons, “I let my eyes off him for a second, he’s liaising with the CIA, the RCMP, the damn IRS. I think the boy’s got a thing for acronyms.”

“I’m just friendly,” Ray said numbly.

“Is there something I can help you gentlemen with?” Crow Horse asked. “You’re spending so much time here, it’s like you’re sniffing for job opportunities. I can getcha an application, if you want.”

“They’re just leaving,” Ray said.

“Sorry, Crow Horse,” Little Valley said. “It’s nothing personal.”

“You’d do the same thing in our place,” Keeps the Pipe said.

“You know, I’m not sure that I would,” Crow Horse said. “You boys know the way out, right?”

“Agent Levoi,” Little Valley said.

“Please just explain to us what’s keeping you at Bear Creek,” Keeps the Pipe said, “and we can make arrangements—”

“And you.” Crow Horse continued as though he had not been interrupted, aiming his index finger at the center of Ray’s chest, and taking steps toward him. “You get back to work.”

And Ray, before he knew what was happening, was pulled into Crow Horse’s arms and kissed.

“I, uh—yes, sir,” he managed, but Crow Horse was already walking back to his office, whistling tunelessly, his mouth curved in a familiar coyote grin.

The Yanktons exchanged looks. Ray smiled sheepishly.

“I told you,” he said. “I have perks.”

***

The Yanktons apologized profusely and drove off back to their rez. Ray stopped by Crow Horse’s office.

“Thanks,” he said.

Crow Horse shrugged, not looking up from his paperwork. “What for? Just keepin’ up workplace morale.”

Ray came over to sit on the edge of the desk, fitting his legs between Crow Horse’s. Ray bumped Crow Horse’s knee with his own, and Crow Horse finally looked up.

“Okay,” Ray said. “Thanks, _boss_.”

There was no evidence that would have held up reliably in court, or even in banter later, but Ray was sure Crow Horse blushed. He was about to say something about it when George poked his head in the door.

“Got everything straightened out with the Yanktons there, Ray?”

Ray hopped off Crow Horse’s desk. “Yeah. I know where I belong.” George’s expression softened, but Ray preempted his apology. “Don’t worry about it. We’re good.”

George nodded toward dispatch. “Terry’s got a call for you, a 213 up at Crow Creek.”

Ray frowned. “More kids with fireworks on Grampa Little Bear’s land?”

“Sounds like. If you want, you can take my indecent exposure at The Singing Sisters.”

“Pass.”

George chuckled his way to his squad car. Ray started to the parking lot, too, but then Crow Horse got up and followed him to the door, so Ray waited.

“Best go with you. Grampa hates _Wasi’chu_ ’s, and he hasn’t held onto a new memory for twenty years, so I’m sure he don’t remember you’re okay. He might come after you with a shotgun if you go it alone.”

“Thanks,” Ray said.

Crow Horse shrugged. “It’d be a damn shame to have to replace you is all, especially after going through that whole mess with the Yanktons. And quit grinning like that—some damn fox in a henhouse. It makes you look like you’re on the wrong side of the law.”

***

Ray didn’t get shot. He and Crow Horse calmed Grampa Little Bear down, and then they gave a police escort to the boys they’d found out in Grampa’s fields, pockets full of M-80’s and cherry bombs. It was still surreal to Ray that after all his hard work and training, most days he was basically a hall monitor with a sidearm. But then he reminded himself, sneaking a look at Crow Horse in the passenger’s seat, that work was just work, and life was made up of a lot more important things than job titles. Anyhow, the perks were definitely worth it.

The radio crackled on their way back to the station, and Ray picked up the handset.

“Levoi.”

“Hey, Ray, are you guys still at Crow Creek? We got a someone calling from that tract housing down there, saying they heard shots fired.”

“Just heard?”

“Yeah, she said she didn’t see anyone with a gun. She said she hears shots all the time, but usually not this early in the day, so she thought she’d call it in.”

“Copy. We’re 76.”

Ray pulled a U-turn. The rez roads were great for that; not a lot of traffic. They were a few minutes from their destination when Crow Horse straightened up in his seat.

“Whoa, Ray, stop here, the gas station.”

“We got half a tank; it can wait—”

“Just stop, goddammit. Somethin’ ain’t right.”

Ray pulled the cruiser into the gas station parking lot, and understood what Crow Horse meant. There were several cars in the lot, but no customers visible, in the lot or inside the store.

“What the hell?” Ray said.

“Close enough to be the shots fired,” Crow Horse said.

Ray followed Crow Horse out of the car, stalking carefully to the convenience store’s door. They both took their weapons in hand.

Ray fitted himself into a piece of wall between windows, and squinted through the dirt-clouded glass door.

“I don’t see a clerk,” he whispered. “I don’t see anybody.”

Crow Horse nodded. He brought his gun to the ready, and took the section of wall on the opposite side of the door.

“Stay out here until I give the all clear,” Ray said.

“Ain’t my first rodeo, Ray,” Crow Horse said. “Be careful.”

Ray raised his weapon; he followed his gun like it was his center of balance, using his other hand to press open the door. He entered the convenience store slowly, checking the perimeter.

“Police! Everything all right in here?”

There were three people, two men and a woman, on their bellies on the floor between the aisles of shelves, hands covering their heads. Ray did the math just quickly enough, and fell to a crouch as his query received an answer: a bullet whistling past, crashing through the glass door. Ray saw the gun and the black ski mask, and he threw himself behind a row of shelves, sending a shower of candy bars to the floor.

“Police!” he said again. “Drop the gun!”

A shot through the shelves; shining specks of silver wrapper and bits of chocolate exploded around Ray like a Hershey’s Kiss grenade. Ray peered around the corner; the shooter was halfway between the service counter and the aisles. Ray had five or six inches on him, and he was thin, swimming in baggy clothes. He had a gun in one hand and a plastic store bag in the other. It wasn’t very full; they had, Ray imagined, interrupted him emptying the register. He wondered where the clerk was, and then with a hot rush of bile realized he probably knew the answer. Ray fired a few shots, but he was more worried about return fire than precision, and he missed, the bullets lodging into the wall behind the shooter, one taking out the pot of decaf bubbling on the burner behind him.

“You’re a crappy shot,” the shooter said. “I thought you _Wasi’chu_ cops had all kinds of training and shit.”

“Drop the gun,” Ray said again. “Come on; I know you don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

“Casualties of war, man.”

Another bullet, another explosion of candy wrapper confetti. Ray inched backwards along the tile floor, chocolate smearing his pants.

“Let me help you,” Ray said. “If you come quietly, I can work on getting you a deal.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you give a shit about me.”

The gunshots were loud, but Walter had been teaching him tracking tips, honing his senses, and Ray could hear the shooter’s steps beneath the reports. Walking towards the front of the store, walking towards him. Ray inched further down the aisle, but in a moment that wasn’t going to be an option anymore. He would have to go into the aisles, and put the customers in danger, or he would have to stand and fight. A shootout. Neither option was particularly appetizing.

The shooter stilled in front of the door, the rectangle of light falling around him. He looked at Ray, his eyes dark behind the mask. Ray was in his sights; decision time. Ray glanced briefly toward the aisles, his only chance to hide, and then flashed to the terrified faces he’d seen before the bullets had started flying. That wasn’t an option. Ray came to his feet. His hand shook around his gun.

“Police,” he said. “Drop the gun.”

The shooter laughed, and aimed. Ray began putting pressure on his trigger, but before he could fire, there was a crack and a whistle, and the shooter was doubled over, a dark stain flowering over the leg of his pants. He dropped his weapon; its clatter to the floor was one of the loudest noises Ray had ever heard. He rushed forward and kicked the pistol away, took the shooter in one hand and drove him against the counter, his gun nuzzling the ski mask.

Walter came in the shattered door, his boots rustling the little pellets of broken glass.

“You have great timing,” Ray said.

“I know, I know,” Walter said. “I’m pretty damn heroic.”

He pulled out his cuffs.

“All right, you son of a bitch,” he said. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford an attorney, the _Wasi’chu_ ’s will get you one for free as soon as we get you down there to the Fed jail in Rapid City. But that’s days down the pike; right now you’re stuck with me, so I advise you get talkin’.”

“Fuck you,” the shooter growled.

Walter snapped the cuffs around his wrists, and dragged him to his feet. Ray let go of the guy, and walked around the counter to check on the clerk.

“I believe that’s the suspect waiving his rights, don’t you?” Crow Horse said.

“That’s what I heard,” Ray said. And then, softly, “Oh, no.”

The clerk looked to be a high school kid. He was thin and had acne splotching his chin, and he was lying supine with two small, dark holes in his gut.

He was still alive, his eyes open, his breath sputtering in his chest. Ray looked around for something to stop the bleeding, and came up empty, so he took off his jacket, folded it, and pressed it against the kid’s abdomen.

“Walter, we need an ambulance.”

Crow Horse peered over the counter. He still had the shooter in one hand and his gun in the other.

“You know we don’t have ambulances,” he said softly.

Ray flinched. Yes, he knew that. He knew. Shit, but they needed one, so maybe he had just . . . hoped.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Ray said, but the kid’s eyes weren’t on him; they weren’t anywhere.

“I’ll radio for backup when I put this sumbitch in the cruiser,” Crow Horse said.

“No,” Ray said. “I mean—yes, call, but don’t put him in the car. I have to—we have to get to the clinic.”

Ray’s jacket was darkening, the blood seeping up to meet his fingers. It was hard to pick up the kid without letting go of the compress, but Ray figured it out. The kid hardly weighed anything; the blood sticking to his hands felt heavier.

Crow Horse and his _assault with a deadly weapon_ arm weight held the door for him, and then trailed after him en route to the cruiser.

“Ray,” he said.

Ray waited for Crow Horse to open the cruiser doors, but Crow Horse was just looking at him.

“Help me,” he said.

“Ray, it’s too late.”

For a long moment, Ray didn’t understand. Then he looked down at the kid in his arms; his eyes were rolled back in his head, and his chest wasn’t moving. Ray dropped to his knees, laid the kid on the ground. He tried CPR, but the compressions only drove blood into the kid’s mouth. There was no breath left.

“We were too late, Ray,” Crow Horse said. “Come on, get up. We got a lot of work here.”

Get up. He needed to get up, but somehow Ray couldn’t remember quite how. The kid’s eyes were still open, and Ray closed them. He looked down at himself; he was covered in blood, in some places as dark as the chocolate staining his pants.

Crow Horse was standing over him with the son of a bitch who had done this, who had killed this kid and almost certainly Jackie Spotted Elk, too. Ray swallowed it, and came to his feet. He grabbed his kit out of the cruiser, set it on the hood of the car, and opened it. He grabbed an evidence bag and then strode over to Crow Horse and the shooter, and ripped the ski mask from the guy’s head. He stuffed it in the bag, and then he looked into the face of the man that had killed two people and tried to kill him.

Only it wasn’t a man. It was a boy, not much older than the kid on the ground. Ray lost his breath.

“Well, lookit, Robby Red Fox,” Crow Horse said. “Looks like you graduated from selling pot and stealing car radios to major league stupid.”

“You know him?” Ray said.

“Oh, yeah,” Crow Horse said. “Me and Robby go way back. He’s been a criminal mastermind since grade school.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Dunno, what’re you, seventeen now, Robby?”

“Eighteen,” Robby mumbled.

“Well, you’ll get the most out of life in prison,” Crow Horse said. He steered Robby toward the cruiser. “Come on, now, Ray. Need you to get him up to the clinic, have the doc see about that bullet in his leg, then get him back to the station, call the Feds, all that good stuff.”

Ray just watched dumbly as Crow Horse maneuvered Robby into the backseat of the car. Crow Horse slammed the door on the snarling, cursing kid, and then turned back to Ray.

“Look, Ray, I know this is hard, but we got him. You got work to do; don’tcha wanna tell Mr. Spotted Elk and this poor kid’s family we caught the sumbitch shot their kin, and that he’s going to jail?”

Ray nodded. He took a deep breath. There was a job to do. There was justice to be done. He needed to focus.

“I’ll take care of it,” Ray said.

Crow Horse clapped a hand on Ray’s shoulder. “Good _kola_. I knew you would. Call me some backup, okay? I gotta take care of these witnesses, collect evidence, get the body handled. Call in every damn body.”

Ray must have responded too slow, because Crow Horse added, “It’ll be okay, Ray. Everything’s gonna be fine.”  



	4. Domestication

  
The clinic was near empty, and Ray had not been that grateful for something in a long damn time. Robby Red Fox growled and spat and howled under the doctor’s ministrations, but he was cuffed and Ray had a gun on him, so he didn’t do much more than complain.

The last time Ray had been at the clinic was for Hobart, with Maggie. The doctor remembered him.

“Why is it that I only see you escorting gunshot victims?” he asked.

Ray shrugged. “IHS won’t clear me, so the only smart move’s not to get sick.”

The doctor cut fabric away from Robby’s wound. “I heard one of the FBI guys was staying on at the tribal police; I didn’t know it was you. How’s life on the rez treating you, BIA bullshit aside?”

“I think I’d like it better if fewer people got shot around me.”

The doctor shrugged. “Fact of life around here, I’m afraid.”

“Yeah,” Ray said softly.

The doctor glanced over Ray’s blood-dyed clothes. “Are you hurt?”

He was, in fact. There was a pain in his chest like it was crumbling inwards, crushed by its own weight, and it was hard to breathe.

Ray shook his head. “No.”

Ray had never escorted a prisoner to the clinic before, and he seemed to make the doctor nervous; the man narrated his actions, and waited occasionally for Ray’s okay before proceeding.

The doctor readied a syringe.

“I’m going to give him something for the pain while I extract the bullet.”

The shining needle poised above Robby’s vein. The doctor was looking at Ray, waiting for his okay.

Ray’s mind flashed, unbidden, to the glassy dead stare of the gas station clerk. _Don’t,_ he thought. _Let him have the pain._

Ray swallowed thickly, and nodded. The doctor gave Robby the shot, and Ray looked away, from the blood and Robby’s angry eyes, shame rising in his throat like suffocation.

***

It was a long while before Crow Horse finished up at the scene. He returned to the station to find Ray’s cruiser gone from the parking lot.

“Oh, hey, boss,” Terry said. “Good collar, enit?”

“Yeah,” Crow Horse said. “Glad that little shit’s off the streets. Where’s Ray? You send him on a call?”

“Oh, no, he left. He got that kid through booking, and then he tore outta here.”

Crow Horse frowned. “What do you mean, ‘he left?’ He’s got all kinds of work to do on this, plus transports and all.”

“He said he was going, and that he’d be off air.” Crow Horse didn’t say anything, mouth drawn tight, so Terry added, “He looked pretty rattled when he came in here, boss.”

“Try pinging him for me, huh, Terry?”

“He said he was off air—”

“Just try it.”

Terry pinged the system, sending a chime over the radio louder and higher in pitch than the usual low tone of calls. Then he turned the mike on.

“Officer Levoi, 10-21 Robert. Repeat: Officer Levoi, 10-21 Robert.”

In the fifth minute of standing silent, straining to hear the minutest crackle of the radio, Crow Horse became aware of how ridiculous he was being. He sighed.

“Shit,” he said. “Terry, I’ll be on air; lemme know if you hear from him.”

***

Walter checked home first, and then Grampa’s. And then he was out of ideas; anywhere else Ray went, he went there for work or with Crow Horse. The rez wasn’t home yet, and he didn’t have haunts. Maybe he’d gone to the city. Crow Horse pinched the bridge of his nose; he was a good tracker, but he didn’t know where to begin hunting Ray down if he’d gone into the city. It was a home court advantage deal; he might never find him.

Or maybe Ray had just gotten on a plane and flown back to DC, in which case he certainly didn’t want to be found.

Crow Horse slammed his hands down on the steering wheel. No. No, Ray wouldn’t just run off without saying anything. Okay, well, he had done that, back at the station, but he wouldn’t really go far without saying goodbye. Maybe there was one place left he could check.

Crow Horse drove to Metoska.

***

Crow Horse found Ray’s cruiser at the edge of what used to be Maggie Eagle Bear’s place. As far as he knew, the tribal council hadn’t found anybody willing to move in yet; maybe they never would.

Crow Horse parked beside Ray’s car, and walked up to the driver’s side door. Ray was watching Maggie’s empty house, becoming faded behind the wild prairie grasses growing thick around it.

“You got a lot of nerve, Ray. You got any idea how much work you left undone? Plus walking out without saying anything to me, like some punk kid? I oughta kick your ass.”

Ray was motionless behind the driver’s side window, like a museum exhibit. _Still Life with Half-Breed._

Crow Horse tapped on the window. Ray turned, blinked at him through the glass. Crow Horse caught sight of Ray’s pale, spooked eyes, and gentled his tone.

“Open up, _kola_. I wanna talk to you.”

Ray moved back in his seat a little, and the shift was enough that Crow Horse’s view changed. Ray was masked by shadow, and it was harder for Crow Horse to see him behind the glass than it was to see his own reflection. Crow Horse watched himself frown. He pressed his badge to the glass, and rapped on the window with his knuckles. Ray just looked at him for a moment before rolling it down.

“Can I help you, officer?” Ray asked softly.

“License and registration, please.”

Ray was a long moment in responding, but eventually he handed over his wallet. Crow Horse slipped it into the front pocket of his jeans.

“Step out of the car.”

Crow Horse fully expected Ray to flip him off, or maybe to start the car and drive off. But he didn’t. For a long time, his pale eyes held Crow Horse distrustfully, but then he opened the door and got out of the cruiser.

“Turn around, spread your legs, and put your hands on the car.”

Crow Horse was sure this would be the fight, but, wordlessly, Ray turned away. He moved his feet shoulder-length apart, and put his hands on his squad car’s hot metal body.

Slowly, thoroughly, Crow Horse patted him down, Ray’s muscles tensing high wire taut beneath his hands. Crow Horse straightened up, and he took Ray by the shoulders, spun him around, and drove him against the cruiser. Crow Horse crushed his mouth against Ray’s. Ray’s body remained so rigid Crow Horse worried he would snap and roll up like a window blind, and he did not return the kiss.

They broke apart. Crow Horse studied Ray’s face for some sign, but emotion was crowded out by the intensity of those blue eyes boring holes in him. Crow Horse felt anger simmer behind his sternum and he pushed Ray, once, twice, into the cruiser’s metal skeleton, to try and shake some reaction from him.

Ray just looked at him, sullen and silent. Crow Horse threw Ray’s wallet back at him. It hit Ray in the chest and bounced off, hitting the ground with a loud slap. Crow Horse waited a moment for Ray to retrieve it; when he did not, Crow Horse sighed and did it himself.

“You wanna talk?” he said finally, stuffing Ray’s wallet back in his pocket. Ray didn’t say anything, so Crow Horse sighed again, and shook his head. “Fine, chief. However you want it.”

Crow Horse turned his back on Ray. Fuck him. He would just drive home, and Ray could show up there whenever he grew up, and they’d have it out then.

Ray got back in his cruiser. Crow Horse had settled behind his own wheel when he caught a flicker of movement in his periphery. He turned as reflex, and saw Ray bent over the wheel, shoulders hunched, head down. Shit. Crow Horse got out of his cruiser, and walked back over to Ray’s. Ray hadn’t shut the door, and Crow Horse just eased it gently open. Ray was bent over like he needed the wheel to keep him upright, and crying. Not subtly, that one tear actor bullshit, but really crying, his body shaking with it.

Shit. Crow Horse took Ray by the shoulders, pulled him up off the wheel, started to pull him out of the car. Ray just drove into him, nuzzling like a calf, hands fumbling for purchase. Crow Horse wanted to move—only action could solve this—but he just stood still until Ray was through. Ray limp against his chest, Crow Horse reached across the driver’s seat and took the keys from the ignition, and then he got Ray to his feet and directed him to the passenger’s seat of his own car.

Crow Horse didn’t turn on the running lights, but he drove like he had.

***

Ray was silent the whole ride, and he was silent when they arrived, too. Crow Horse got out of the car; he waited a moment for Ray, but Ray wasn’t coming, so Crow Horse pulled him out of the car like he had back at Maggie’s, and took him into the house. Jimmy ran up to meet them, but Ray didn’t even seem to notice. Crow Horse looked at Ray’s blank expression, like a shock victim just pulled from a car wreck, and wondered if he was hurt.

Crow Horse took Ray to the bedroom and stripped him, Ray limp and compliant. The blood on Ray’s clothes was still wet, and when Crow Horse got close, he could smell it, metallic and raw. Some of the blood had soaked through and stained Ray’s skin copper orange, and carefully, with his eyes and the flats of his palms, Crow Horse slowly studied every inch of Ray’s body for injury. He found none.

Crow Horse looked to Ray’s face and was able to catch his gaze and hold it. He looked apprehensive and hurt, but inherently trusting, the same expression Jimmy had when Crow Horse yelled at him.

“Come on,” Crow Horse said.

Ray didn’t say anything, but followed him to the bathroom. Crow Horse took off his own clothes, and he maneuvered them both into the shower. Ray stood dumb under the water, which Crow Horse had expected, so he lathered his palms and took Ray in hand, and worked the bloodstains from Ray’s skin. Just a second of the water stained slightly rust-colored, and then it was gone down the drain, like it had never happened. Except Ray still looked like he was trying to make out the number of the bus that’d just hit him, his eyes wild and haunted, his face impassive.

Ray was easily led, and let Crow Horse get him out of the shower and into some clothes. Then he and Crow Horse just stared at one another a moment; Crow Horse was out of ideas. He was out of his element, here.

Maybe he knew a place good for that.

Crow Horse whistled for Jimmy, and he piled Ray and the dog and himself into Ray’s truck.

***

Grampa Reaches was watching an afternoon soap opera when they arrived.

“ _These Brewers are nothing but trouble,_ ” he said in Lakota, barely glancing up from the television. “ _Why would anyone marry into that family? Bad blood._ ”

“ _Sorry to interrupt your stories, Grampa,_ ” Crow Horse said. “ _But I think Ray needs some guidance._ ”

Grampa motioned to the chair in front of him, and Crow Horse sat Ray down, his hands weighing heavy on Ray’s shoulders, anchoring him to his seat. Grampa turned away from the television to better regard Ray.

“You look like you seen a ghost,” Grampa said.

“No,” Ray said. “Not this time.”

“The _Wasi’chu_ people,” Grampa said, “they don’t think too much about what it means to be _Wasi’chu_ , and it’s easy. It’s different to be Indian, because you cannot forget it.”

“Yes,” Ray said softly.

“That boy, Robby Red Fox, that is not your fault. It is not the fault of the _Wasi’chu_ ’s, or the Indians. A man makes his own path.”

“He’s not a man,” Ray said. “He’s a child. And he was driven to this.”

Grampa shook his head. “People drive themselves. You need to forget Robby Red Fox. You need to watch where you are going, or maybe you will fall.”

“I don’t understand,” Ray said.

“Listen,” Grampa said. He began to sing, softly.

Ray withstood the lack of answers for a moment, and then shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Ray stumbled out from under Crow Horse’s grip, and left the camper. His feet worked faster than his mind, and he stumbled, catching on every one of the not inconsiderable number of obstacles between him and the door.

Crow Horse watched after him, crossing his arms over his chest. Grampa shuffled up behind him, rested a hand on Crow Horse’s back.

“ _That’s okay,_ ” he said. “ _It’s coming up on dinnertime; you should take him somewhere he can eat._ ”

“ _Eat?_ ” Crow Horse repeated, not sure he’d heard right.

Grampa nodded. “ _Food is important for healing. He’ll think much better on a full stomach._ ”

Ray and Jimmy were sitting in the truck. Jimmy looked up when Crow Horse slid behind the wheel, tail wagging; Ray kept his eyes down.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Hell, if anyone’ll understand, it’s Grampa.” He studied Ray’s drawn face for a moment. “You hungry?”

Ray looked up, surprised.

“Yeah,” he said, voice lilting like he had not realized it until Crow Horse asked. “Starving.”

Crow Horse nodded, and started the engine. Jimmy smiled, and wagged his tail some more; he liked going in the car. Ray petted him, and closed his eyes as he pressed his nose into Jimmy’s soft, clean-smelling fur.

The closest restaurant was the Buffalo Beauty, which was technically more a bar that happened to serve food, and besides, it wasn’t a place likely to help Ray feel better about being Indian or living on the rez. They could drive to Rapid City, but Ray probably couldn’t take the two hours cooped up in the car; he’d gotten antsy after five minutes at Grampa’s.

Crow Horse had a better idea.

***

“Hey, Ma. Sorry we didn’t call first.”

“You don’t have to call, Walter,” Crow Horse’s ma said, and hugged her son.

“Was hoping we could stay for dinner.”

“Sure,” Crow Horse’s ma said, but her attention caught on Ray’s lack of eye contact. “ _Everything all right?_ ”

“ _Ray’s having a time. Just needs to get his head on straight._ ”

“Okay. Dinner’s almost ready; why don’t you boys go set the table?”

Ray suffered the plates like they were made of lead.

“I don’t want to be here,” he whispered. “Let’s go. I want to go.”

“You said you were hungry,” Crow Horse said. “You got a place in mind to go to, or are you just tryin’ to run?”

Ray didn’t say anything. He worked on lining up the silverware in perfect geometric harmony with the placemats. Crow Horse hadn’t been answered, but he figured this was probably one of those times to just let it be, so he left Ray to his obsessive straightening. He was still at it when Walter’s pop entered the kitchen, his eyes lighting briefly on the boys at the table.

“ _Be nice,_ ” Crow Horse’s ma said. “ _I mean it. Not a word of argument; just be nice._ ”

Crow Horse’s pop shrugged like his wife was outlining the days of the week to him. He patted Walter on the shoulder, and then Ray, carefully.

“Thought you boys’d be ass-deep in paperwork,” he said.

Walter’s mouth thinned, and he cast a sideways glance at Ray and his far away eyes.

“It’ll keep,” he said finally. “Man’s gotta eat.”

“ _The hell’s wrong with him?_ ” Crow Horse’s pop asked finally, nodding to Ray.

Crow Horse’s ma frowned, and intervened, coming up to the table and taking Ray gently by the arm.

“ _I told you to be nice,_ ” she said. Then, “Raymond, come with me. I have some scraps you can give Jimmy.”

Walter and his pop watched Ray kneel, and feed little bits of meat to the dog. For a wild animal that had come up off its wits in the desert, he was awful gentle taking the treats from Ray’s fingers, and he waited patiently between bites, sitting at attention, eyes wide as the moon. Ray had done a good job getting the animal to heel, Walter had to admit, and the damn thing loved him crazy, besides.

“ _You know how these environmentalists try and get involved, introducing new species into places they think they’ll have a better survival rate, things like that?_ ” he said.

His pop nodded. “ _Yeah. Usually turns to shit._ ”

“ _I think that may be the problem, here._ ”

Jimmy stuck his snout into Ray’s empty hands, searching out more meat. When he decided none was forthcoming, he licked Ray’s face, tail wagging so hard his whole back half wiggled.

Crow Horse’s pop watched his son watching the mutts. He rested his hand on Walter’s shoulder.

“ _I’m very sorry, Walter._ ”

***

Dinner was venison stew. They ate in near silence; Ray wasn’t talking, and after a point it was infectious.

Afterwards, the boys tried to help with the dishes and were shooed away by Crow Horse’s ma.

“You planning on staying awhile?” Ray asked.

“Yeah,” Crow Horse said. “Why? You got somewhere to be?”

Ray shook his head. “Will you miss me if I go lie down?”

Walter didn’t think it was time for that conversation, so he just shook his head. Ray disappeared down the hall, his faithful three-legged shadow just steps behind. Walter was going to go, too, but his pop stopped him before he could leave the kitchen.

“We need to talk,” he said.

A knot of dread formed in Walter’s stomach like he hadn’t felt since he was still young enough to get whipped.

“Okay,” he said, because it was the only thing to say.

And then he noticed his father looked uncomfortable, maybe nervous, which wasn’t something Walter had seen often. He perked up his ears.

“Listen,” Crow Horse’s pop said. “A father wants certain things for his son, and maybe part of that is things he wants for himself but can’t separate, because in a lotta ways a man is his son. But something every man wants apart from himself is for his son to be happy. And if this half-breed makes you happy, then I want you to have him. I know I haven’t always been supportive of that, but I’ve sat with it a while, and I’ve seen how you are with him, and I believe you love him and that’s all he wants from you, so that’s fine. It ain’t what I wanted for you, but it’s useless trying to direct what life gives you.”

Walter remembered the look on his father’s face when he had first brought Ray home. He had done it just two days after they’d come back to the rez, hoping to beat the gossip, so that his folks would hear how things were from him. But he’d been too slow, and his folks had understood what Ray meant when they’d showed him in. Crow Horse’s father had taken one look at the three-quarters white man his only child had brought home, had in fact tracked and trapped, and Walter had met his eyes and hadn’t needed to hear a word of the speech about bloodlines and hundreds of years of history dead on the vine that his folks would spend the next half hour rolling out in Lakota because they knew without asking that Ray wouldn’t understand.

Walter would remember the look on his father’s face then the rest of his life, but he did not see a trace of it now.

“But Walter,” his father said, looking sympathetic and maybe even sad, “you gotta figure out if what’s wrong with him is growing pains, or if he’s snared. If he’s just changing, fine; he’ll work through his troubles and come out grown on the other side. But if he’s snared, a fox in a trap, there’s no fixing it. All a trapped fox can see is freedom and the thing keeping him from it. He will destroy you and himself and anyone else that’s keeping him tethered, and the only kindness you can show him is to let him loose.”

***

So much of their lives growing up had been different, but Walter’s childhood bedroom wasn’t that dissimilar from his own. Little boys were the same all over, he guessed. Ray lay on his back on Walter’s bed from when he was a boy, looking up at the faded paper figures parading across the ceiling, secured with yellowed Scotch tape. A western scene, cowboys and Indians.

Jimmy was curled up on the rug. Ray didn’t look down when the door opened, but he could hear Walter stumble and curse almost tripping over the dog. Walter made it to the bed without serious injury, and patted the mattress, whistled for Jimmy.

“Come on, now, hup,” he said.

Ray swallowed. It must really be bad if Walter was inviting Jimmy onto the bed. The dog hopped up beside Ray, snuggling against his ribs, and so he was surrounded: Jimmy on one side, Walter on the other. Walter kicked off his boots and got comfortable, laying beside Ray, shoulder-to-shoulder, sharing his pillow. He didn’t say anything, just followed Ray’s gaze up to the tableau on the ceiling.

“Did you put those up there?” Ray asked.

This was as close to a safe topic as there was one. They had stayed several times at Walter’s folks’ place, sleeping in this same spot, and Ray asked that question most every time. He wasn’t really sure himself what he was getting after, the unspoken question he wanted answered, but Walter was patient with him and answered every time.

“Yeah,” he said. “They came in a little book; you punched them out, and then you could play with them, or whatever. I got a mess of cousins, and usually we couldn’t be still long enough to play with things like that, things easy to break, so my pop stood on my bed and held me up, and I taped them up to the ceiling so I could watch them when I was going to sleep, and make stories in my head. I was six, maybe seven.”

“That’s how old I was when my father died.”

Walter was looking at him strangely. Ray tried to conjure the words to explain—youth happened so fast, and some years were just blurs in the space of his memory, but the world had stopped then—but couldn’t.

“I know that, Ray,” Walter said finally.

Ray couldn’t divine the unspoken question there, either. He brought his eyes down from the ceiling, and studied Walter’s face for fatigue lines, for disappointment, for clues of what had gone on in the time he had been shut up here with the paper Indians.

“Your parents read you the riot act?” Ray asked. “Warn you off me?”

“No. They actually told me I need to do what’s best for you, even if it’s not what I want.”

“I was thinking,” Ray said, “that even if I left here tonight, went back to DC and begged for my old job back, found a nice white girl to marry, my stepfather still might not talk to me.” Walter didn’t say anything, so Ray continued, “It’s terrifying, to think you can ruin something on accident, and not be able to fix it after you realize what you’ve done.”

Walter just looked at him for a long time, and Ray could see disappointment rise up like contour lines on the map of his face.

“If you’re thinkin’ of doing any of those things,” he said carefully, “I think I’m owed a warning.”

Ray lost his breath as completely as if he’d taken a punch to the solar plexus.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“What for?”

“Lots of things, I guess. Mostly disappointing you. But right now, not thinking of you when I ran my mouth.”

“Ain’t the first time,” Walter said, “or the last. Anyway, you got a lot on your mind without me there.”

“Yes,” Ray said softly.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Talking was hard with anyone, and with Walter especially, where so much was at stake. It was another gamble, Ray guessed; it would be easy to just bet on things staying the same, but if he wanted anything more, he’d have to risk. Still, it was hard, and when he finally spoke, it was slowly, like he had to weigh out the words before they could leave his mouth.

“You’re not the only reason I came to live on the rez,” he said.

“I know that, Ray.”

“I had forgotten, Walter. I’ve been passing my whole life. I didn’t—I didn’t really do it on purpose; I didn’t think about it. After my father died, I just wanted to bury him. He was all I had from that world, and with him gone, it was easy to forget about. And so I lived completely in the white world, and I passed. But not as well, I guess, as I thought I did, because the first chance the FBI had to use me as an Indian, they did it. It was something I had forgotten about myself, but it was all they saw. And so when you came for me, I wanted—not because I’d been found out, but because I _remembered_ —to go with you, to come back here.” He shook his head, eyes downcast. “But now I’m here, and there’s so much that’s hard or unfair, so many things that are really difficult to swallow. And the worst part is, I’m not white enough to live out there, and I’m not Indian enough to live here. I don’t belong anywhere.”

“Ray—”

Ray raised his eyes. “Except with you. The only place I belong, the only place I don’t feel out of place, is with you. Look, I know I’ve been a pain in the ass, and I’ll probably continue to be. Some of these changes are really hard for me, and apparently I’m not going to be graceful making them. I just need you—I’m asking you, please—to be patient with me, because I don’t know how I’d do this without you. And I wouldn’t want to.”

It wasn’t the betting that was hard, the moment of thinking over what you might lose. It was the seconds before the roulette wheel stopped spinning, the moment you lived in limbo without knowing whether your risk paid off, or if you just lost.

Walter set his palm at the nape of Ray’s neck, his fingers feathering up through his hair. Ray squeezed his eyes briefly shut, felled by the pleasure of the familiar sensation, the relief of leaving limbo.

“So you’re not lookin’ to get free?” Walter asked.

“No,” Ray said, inching closer to Walter until their foreheads were touching, his hand searching the small, dark space between their bodies until it found Walter’s. He threaded their fingers together, and when he squeezed, Walter squeezed back. “Kind of the opposite.”

Walter shifted, opening up in embrace the arm currently not in Ray’s possession. Ray tucked himself into it, and closed his eyes, his body relaxing along the familiar length of Walter’s. Jimmy inched forward into the abandoned space, pressing himself against Ray’s back, so there wasn’t an inch between Ray and his _tiospaye_. Ray was penned in by love on all sides, and that was pretty okay.  



End file.
